


Straddled

by jamlockk



Series: All the ways we love [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bit medically unsound but meh fuck it there's rimming, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets a bump on the head and his mouth runs away with him a bit. Fortunately John overhears. Then smexin'. Yup, that's about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straddled

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write John sitting on Sherlock. And to get past my smutblock. The rimming just sort of... happened. 
> 
> Thanks as always to the wonderful Ewebie for her quick beta and willingness to overlook my complete disregard for sound medical practice. <3

"Sherlock!"

John's shriek of alarm echoes down the hallway and I think I see him running towards me as my knees fold under me. The floor rushes up to my face and I realise with no small amount of annoyance that I've fallen. My brain feels as though it's being squeezed out of a tiny gap in my skull and my vision swims and goes dark. The last thought that registers in my mind before I lose consciousness is my frustration that the thief managed to surprise me enough to whack me over the head with the stolen psalter. 

******

I'm only out for a couple of minutes but when I open my eyes everything still feels a little fuzzy. I hear grunting up ahead and I manage to rally my faculties sufficiently so that I can raise my head and peer through the dim light to see what's going on.

John is sitting across the thief, one knee pressed to the man's back. The idiot is still squirming under John's weight but he's getting nowhere with John holding his wrists pinned. Distantly I hear Lestrade's voice and John shouts in reply, before turning back to me and grinning. The thief under him protests, loudly. 

"I'll be over to check you in a minute, Sherlock. Just stay still, ok? Can't believe you let him thwack you, you tit," John says warmly, twisting his grip on the thief's wrists and causing him to yelp. I think I'm grinning back at John but my mind still feels a little like treacle. I hate blows to the head.

"Bloody hell, John," Lestrade says from behind John, his tone one of amused resignation. 

"Get this crazy bastard off me!" the thief yells with a fresh bout of wriggling. "I didn't do anything!" 

"Yeah mate, nothing at all, except nick a priceless bloody book," Lestrade counters. "Let him up John, I'll take it from here."

John stands and helps the idiot thief to his feet before starting to make his way over to me. I meanwhile have managed to sit up and have been watching John, as always. John, strong, capable John, who's walking over to check on me now. Good. I want his attention. I glance at the thief and think he should count himself lucky. I'd give anything to have my John straddle me like that. 

John's mouth drops open and Lestrade's gasp is probably audible on the other side of London. Belatedly I figure out that somehow my sluggish brain chose to verbalise that particular thought. Oh no. 

I decide to ignore it and I look up at John, attempting to project my usual aloofness. 

"Crikey, what's wrong with him?" Lestrade asks, gesturing with his head to me. 

"He got a knock to his head, that's all," John says, stopping in his tracks, his back to Lestrade. He's frowning at me. 

"Sure that's all it is?" Lestrade asks, stifling laughter. "I don't think I've ever seen his face go quite that goofy, you know!" He snaps his cuffs on the thief and turns to take him outside. "It's rather adorable," he adds thoughtfully. 

I was trying to smile at John, be reassuring and confident, but apparently my face is showing far too much. I hastily get my expression under control. I let cold distance cross my features and throw my sharpest glare at Lestrade and the thief. 

"Oh what the hell?! They're gay?! That's even worse, now you have to arrest him! He assaulted me, that poofter assaulted me!" the thief puts in. 

John sniffs, once. Lestrade meets my eye over John's shoulder. I struggle to my feet and forgo the opportunity to scold Lestrade for the goofy and adorable comments. I opt to eviscerate the thief instead. 

Just as I open my mouth however Lestrade shoves the man roughly towards the end of the hallway and growls something about incitement charges and abusive language in the presence of police officers. The hallway falls silent as the heavy door bangs behind them. 

John is still frozen in place, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He's staring at the floor but when I wobble on my feet he reaches out to steady me without thinking. His hand closes around my elbow and I manage to right myself. The fuzziness in my mind is clearing but I'm still lightheaded. We stand there a moment, deliberately not looking at each other. John snaps back to reality first, yanking his hand away from me as if burnt. My heart gives a lurch at the loss of his touch but I cover it quickly. 

"Right," John mutters, sucking in a breath. "Home?"

I nod and lead him out of the building. We don't say another word to each other as I summon a taxi. Lestrade calls to John as it arrives and I stand and watch the scene as they talk for a moment. I start deducing the assembled officers and John hurries back over. He still says nothing, just looks at me with an odd expression I can't place. Then he gets in and we leave. Lestrade's paperwork can wait for John tomorrow. 

The ride back to Baker Street is equally silent. I leap out of the taxi as soon as it pulls up and retreat to my bedroom, discarding my coat and suit jacket on the way. I lie down on the far side of my bed in the dark on my front and try to stop my thoughts circling in despair. 

John is not gay. He may have been attracted to me at one time, back at the very beginning, but I rejected him clumsily and anyway, I would never now be able to know John that way just once. I've been aware for a long time just how deeply, wholly in love with John I am. And one throwaway thought, mumbled loudly enough to be heard by John and two others, will destroy everything. 

"Sherlock? I need to check on you," John says quietly through the door. I don't answer. Just go, John. Don't bother. 

Contrary as always, John walks in and sits down next to me on the bed. His hands are wound tightly together in his lap. I shut my eyes and resolve to ignore him until he leaves. 

He sighs. The bed creaks as he shifts his weight and goes to stand up. Good. Leave. Go, I think. 

He huffs a laugh and I frown into the pillow. The bed suddenly creaks again as John gets up on his knees beside me. 

"John?" My voice is muffled but I'm certain he hears my confusion. My heart beats wildly in my chest and a dangerous shard of hope lodges itself firmly in my throat. 

"Just... Can I test a theory here, Sherlock? Please?"

Cautiously, I nod my assent, lifting my head from pressing into the pillow and turning to the side. I aim for haughty disinterest with my expression. I definitely miss by a country mile. 

John swings one leg over my back and settles over my legs. One of his hands rests on my shoulder, his weight pressing pleasantly down on me. His other hand pushes into my hair as he leans forward to brush his nose through the curls at my ear.

"What are you doing?" I try to snap. The effect is somewhat ruined by the moan that escapes my mouth when John shifts against me. His voice is low and his breath hot against my skin as he speaks. 

"Is this what you had in mind?" John murmurs, pressing his lips into my hair.

"John," I mumble in response, my body already reacting to his weight and proximity. This is going to be very embarrassing very quickly, I think desperately. 

"Your John, straddling you like this?" he whispers. 

I shudder and move my hips, tilting them to relieve some of the pressure on my now straining erection. I groan and lean up into his gentle kisses in my hair. It's blissful and wonderful and I never want him to stop. 

He does, though, and nudges me to roll over. I twist beneath him onto my side and meet his eyes. He's smiling softly, gazing down at me, and I feel incredibly light and grounded all at once. He strokes my face and pushes my hair back from my forehead. I swallow nervously. 

"May I kiss you, Sherlock?" he asks. 

"Yes," I breathe, refusing to acknowledge any blushing my face might be doing. 

He slowly closes his eyes and lowers his mouth to meet mine. I am set aflame instantly by the feeling of his lips. John is kissing me. My John. He smiles against my mouth and I feel it to the tips of my toes. 

John eventually pulls away and strokes my face again. "All right?" he asks nervously. I am more than all right, John. I brush my hand through his hair and pull him down by the neck for another kiss. Now he has given me one kiss he can never stop bestowing them on me. I will not allow it. I am certain I am doing this all wrong but John doesn't seem to object to my apparent lack of technique. He giggles and kisses me harder. We lose ourselves in each other, and soon become desperate and part, gasping into each other's mouths. There is such hunger in John's eyes.

"Sherlock, I want to..." John starts unbuttoning my trousers. "Can I..?" he trails off, fingers hitched into the waistband of my trousers and boxers. I nod, anxious for whatever may happen next. John pulls my trousers and boxers down to my thighs, freeing my cock and exposing my backside. He nudges me to roll back over again onto my stomach. 

"John?" I ask as I comply. "Just relax, and enjoy," John tells me. I nod and mumble my agreement. 

The first touch of his lips on my backside makes me gasp in surprise, but I quickly lose any and all capacity for intelligent thought as his mouth trails kisses and licks and nips down the curve of my left cheek. I cry out and grind uncontrollably into the sheets when he swipes his tongue down my crease, tickling at my entrance as he goes. I feel him smile and chuckle into my flesh. I shudder as his strong fingers knead the curves of my bottom gently. John hums softly.

"Always wanted to get my hands on this glorious arse," he murmurs, his hands moving to part my cheeks. I think for a moment that I should feel ridiculous, exposed, John's face pressed to my bottom. The thought is fleeting and quickly forgotten when John licks a broad stripe over my entrance before kissing it over and over. I am dimly aware of a loud moaning and am horrified to realise that the sound is emanating from me. I burrow into the pillow again, trying to muffle the noise. No use trying to prevent it, not with John lavishing attention on me like this. 

John stops and buries a hand in my hair, stroking through the curls and tugging lightly. I moan again; how can he immediately know all of the buttons to press to reduce me to a quivering wreck?! It is both a welcome development and a terrifying one. John is shushing me as I tremble, stretched out beneath him with my bottom as far in the air as it can go with his weight settled pleasantly on my legs. 

"No, no Sherlock," he soothes, lifting away my pillow and forcing me to bring my arms up to support my neck and head. "I want to hear you, I want to hear every gorgeous noise you can make, love," he says. Then he lowers his head and begins lapping at my hole, kissing and sucking and licking and...

My brain is slowly going completely offline. All I am aware of is John's mouth on me and his last word. 'Love'. John called me 'love'. I hear him saying it again and again, echoing in the corridors and hallways and rooms and gardens and all of the spaces in my mind. 

'Love'. It is impossible for me not to assign some meaning to his utterance of the word, socially conditioned as even I am to associate significance to its effects in this context. I almost want to stop John doing what he is doing to ask him about it but there is such strong pleasure building within me now that I am unable to focus on the concept for more than a few seconds. 

"John," I groan, tilting my hips up again to get more of that lovely tongue. John grins and pulls me up onto my knees, my face still pressed into the bed. One of his hands drifts to stroke at my side, then trails across my stomach beneath my shirt. 

"Gonna make you feel so good, Sherlock, love," John mumbles. I want to reply, say something in return, but I find I can't. He has chased away my capacity for language with his talented tongue. He resumes licking and kissing and sucking with vigour and the wave is beginning to crest. I feel him moan against me and I am almost there, I am so close now.... John...!

He reaches down and strokes my leaking cock, pushing his glorious tongue into me at the same moment. I am utterly lost. The pleasure rushes through my entire body as I spill onto the sheets, and I sink down uncaring that I am lying in the mess and probably ruining my shirt. I come back to myself gradually and become aware of John still straddling my behind, his breathing ragged. I realise with a groan of renewed desire that he is touching himself. 

"Yes, John," I whisper, writhing on the sticky sheets beneath him. I want to feel his pleasure, I want it on my skin and I want him all over me. He moans low in his throat, voice gone rough and deep, then suddenly he is coming, spurting onto my bare bottom and thighs. I sigh in satisfaction and rub myself onto the bed. My oversensitive skin tickles and John flops down beside me. 

We lie there silent for a few moments then John gets up. He disappears from the room. I clamp down fiercely on the panic and cold dread that rises up within me and force myself to calm. Just once, then. Just one experience. Even if that is all I shall ever have of him, I will never regret a single second. I will recall his murmurs, the feel of his kisses, the warmth of his touch, in every atom of my being for the remainder of my days, and I will be glad of it. I, for once, will not take that which is not given. The memory of his 'love' will sustain me. 

I am shaking minutely and squeezing away the hateful tears when John returns. As he tenderly cleans the mess on me with a damp cloth from the bathroom, my control snaps. My face crumples and I rub it into the bedclothes to hide it. 

"Hey, you okay?" John says quietly. I sniff and berate myself for my weakness. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you always were so stupid Sherlock! I turn away from his careful hands, standing up and trying to gather the scraps of my dignity. I pull up my trousers and fasten them. John does the same. Then we are standing in my bedroom on opposite sides of the bed, not looking at each other. This feels wrong, somehow. He should be here, in my arms. I hate it. 

John breaks the silence first. "Well," he sighs, "I guess... I mean... Should I...?"

"Should you what, John?" I snap. I don't mean to snap, I just cannot stand these moments where emotion dictates, rather than logic. Everything is so messy and so imprecise! But I cannot stop thinking about his calling me 'love', it repeats and repeats in my mind, endless echoes in my ears. 

"Leave," John says quietly. Bracing himself, he straightens his shoulders and looks directly at me. His gaze is steady and unwavering but I can see the thin edge of hope and sadness there, hidden deep but shining as the stars to my eyes. 

"No, never," I reply softly. I shake my head. No John, no. "You... You called me... You said..." 

"Love," John says, smiling. "Yes, I did," he continues. "And I meant it, if, you know, that's ok. I mean, nothing has to change, I just- oof!"

I cut him off, crossing the room in two strides and wrapping my arms around him as tightly as I can manage, pulling him into my body. I am never letting him go. 

"John," I say, "I... I mean it too." He relaxes into my odd embrace and strokes my hair, kisses my cheek. He sighs and laughs. I chuckle into his neck where I have buried my face. We part only enough to look at each other, our arms still around one another. John's face is open and bright and I am sure my expression is insufferably soppy. Must get a handle on that. 

"So," John winks at me. 

"So," I reply. I study him for a moment. He bears my scrutiny as he has always done, head high, eager and waiting. 

"When I can try that on you?" I ask. He collapses into giggles, looks at what he calls my 'John this is a serious experiment' face, and grins widely. "Because the average refractory period for a man over 40-"

"Sherlock!" John cuts me off, tutting in mock annoyance. He is grinning again as I push him back towards the bed, encouraging him onto his stomach and straddling his thighs. 

My turn.


End file.
